


I'll Let Her Tell It

by brevityandeloquence



Category: Hamilton - Miranda, In the Heights - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/F, F/M, Lawyers AU, sad closeted lesbian Maria, trans!Eliza, trans!Ham
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-07
Updated: 2016-03-17
Packaged: 2018-05-18 17:50:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5937403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brevityandeloquence/pseuds/brevityandeloquence
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's summer in the city.</p><p>Modern lawyers AU!! Reynolds affair from Maria's perspective, In the Heights crossover. Obligatory lesbians because I am a Huge Gay.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Vanessa's hair salon doesn’t feel like home today. 

There is no comforting cacophony; no intermittent shhhhhh of hair washing stations punctuating the low hum of the sci-fi looking dryer chairs from the 80s. No Selena playing or outdated Billboard hits on the radio, no chatter of the half dozen ladies from Haiti or DR or PR getting their box braids redone or their eyebrows threaded while idly gossiping. 

I fucking hate white people.

The sleazy looking white man in a suit worth twice my savings had just waltzed in here, set the jargon-ey “Summons and Forcible Entry and Detainer Complaint” on the counter, and loudly announced that “Sorry, ladies, but this little establishment will no longer be in business” before strolling back to whatever diamond studded bank vault he slithered out of.

In ten seconds flat the salon goes from a regular business day to dead silent, and bleach is dripping down my neck. Nothing but the aggravated rattling whirr of the ancient ventilation system. Carla, Vanessa, Daniela, all of them are staring at the paper - the court date set for next week - and no one even squabbles over who misplaced the third eviction notice a month ago. Everyone knows exactly what it is.

I shift slightly, unstick my thighs from the old leather seat, and end the silence. "You know, Nessa, you should really get air conditioning in here."

And the tension breaks.

It’s loud again, almost normal but with a communal anger coloring the conversations. Notable bits that stick out to me are “corporate gringo bastard,” “pinche pendejo,” and “mayo con leche piece of shit.”

My best friend contributes something fast and derisive to the flurry of Spanish and finishes washing the hair of the elderly Haitian lady reclining in the seat next to me. Next to her, Daniela throws her hands in the air, getting drops of water on my face.

"Ay, Maria, what’s the point when we’re getting kicked out next week?" She stops abruptly and tilts her head to the side, "You know what, your hair should be done by now mija where is that Julio, he must be screwing Jose from the liquor store in the back room again."

I stare at the chipped plaster ceiling and recognize Vanessa's soft footsteps. Then practiced fingers undoing the tinfoil mess on my head. Wet, chemical soaked locks unravel, probably a dozen shades lighter than they were an hour and a half ago.

"Blonde again?" I ask. 

I hear the shampoo bottle, two pumps. I crane my neck and look up at her.

She smiles and pats my shoulder, "You need a little fun in your life."

A fine mist rises just above my sightline.

“You always say that,” but I don’t mind, not really.

"Because you do.” She pauses. “And so do I! We’ve paid our rent on time every single time since twenty years before I was even born. And look. I was so close to getting that down payment on an apartment downtown and now I’m out of a job. And this old place will be a Wonderbread “blow dry bar” in a week and a half."

"Did that legal aid society do you any good?" I flinch a bit when more droplets land near my eye. After the second eviction notice, intense Googling sessions had ensued. Letting Susana play with both our phones, cross-legged on the livingroom floor with our laptops out, Law and Order: SVU on as motivational background noise. When I still had mostly black 3c hair. 

"I got an interview with some lawyer at Washington-something in three days, but the secretary gave me a tip that I should build up more of a case first if I wanna go pro bono, whatever that is. “ I brace myself for the next bit.

“I know you’re busy, Maria, with your job and Susana, but can you please be my witness? Have you at least thought about it?”

I hadn’t. 

“Please, Maria. You know how much I need this.”

I should say no.

I hadn't slept in a week, I'm weak, barely awake. You've never seen Maria Reynolds more in need of a break. Hours wasted in a courthouse is the last thing I need when every covered shift and A.M. overtime hour I begged for at the restaurant is making my head spin. 

I should say no.

But this salon is a pillar of the community or something, all these people won’t have a place to work and talk and stuff anymore. I probably have a dozen misdemeanors on file and my dead mom is undocumented. There’s plenty of people who can testify, everyone loves the salon. The only reason Vanessa is in charge of the legal stuff is because she speaks the best English of the salon workers.

I should really really say no.

Say no, Maria!

(But it's Vanessa....)

I don't say no.

 

So that's when Alexander Hamilton walks into my life.

Or more accurately, I walk into his office: a nervous Vanessa in tow, pretending to not be super fucking anxious myself, wearing a low-cut navy blue blouse and my shortest white skirt. Let me tell you, I’ve been reading men my whole life, and that man is a Times Square billboard set in neon. I can always tell when they’re looking, and when our fingers brushed while I leaned forward to hand him Vanessa’s folder… Oh, he was definitely looking.

So I look back. Distract myself from the itchy heat of anxiety creeping up my neck and hollowing out my stomach. He’s a skinny guy, early 30s maybe, not bad looking. Better than the regular asshole yelling at me or Vanessa from a souped up Chevrolet. Dark skin, darker circles under intense observant eyes; flickering back to me every few seconds even when he’s introducing himself to Vanessa. Alexander Hamilton, big name for a little guy. He walks lightly in his tailored suit I can tell is ridiculously expensive even for a fancy-talking lawyer like him. Overcompensating? My hands begin to shake. 

He skims through the pages and pages of information that me and Vanessa spent three consecutive nights Googling “johnson v. mcintosh”, “williamsburg effect,” and “just cause laws” to fill. 

This Hamilton guy is apparently a big deal, and can very easily just refuse to take the case. It’s just a simple eviction case, one of thousands and this guy usually gets paid more than that for jobs. I fidget and rake my newly straight-permed and blonde-d hair behind my ear and try to help Vanessa tell her story. I name drop random legal terms I’m sure make no sense and grab Vanessa’s hand more for myself than her when she’s the one probably losing her job and her dream. But after Susana happened she’s the only friend I have left, I can’t lose her. I can’t lose her I can’t I can’t. I’m sweating and breathe deep to calm myself. Idly I figure I look like a mess but I try to reassure myself, maybe desperation will convince the guy to take pity on us.

Thank god, Hamilton is interested. It’s written all over the furrow in his brow and his fixed gaze, how he’s gradually leaning forward more and nodding quickly whenever Vanessa pauses, impatient.  
After she finishes, he’s animate again. His long fingers play with a pen, he leans back and smiles, reassuringly, mostly at me. “I’ll take the case.”

While we’re getting up, I look him straight in the eye and ask about Washington-Adams’s pro bono cost policy and whether any money from the case would be used for legal bills. (Google search: how to hire a lawyer). My voice is only trembling a little bit.

Vanessa is in the doorway already and worried I’ll mess it up, wait no that’s probably just me Nessa is too nice for that. 

Hamilton and I are face to face. He steps towards me.

His giant brown eyes get intense again and he takes my hands in his. 

“Cases like these are why I do this, Maria. I promise I’ll help your friend, and I’ll do everything in my power to make sure neither of you have to pay a cent. Gentrification is a serious issue that I’ve had plenty of experience both personal and professional and I’m not the kind to try to cheat you out of money. If it gets to it I’ll pay it myself out of pocket. You can trust me.”

For some weird reason I actually kinda do.

 

My roots are showing again by the time the court date finally rolls around.

James is pissed. I don’t know or care what a hedge fund manager does but it must be a whole lot of nothing because apparently he doesn’t have anything better to do than bother me. His forty-second text of the day goes silent and unread in Vanessa’s second best purse I borrowed, as if he’s not the one that started yet another shouting match. As if he didn’t shove me into a table and as if he’d not the one that scared his own daughter half to death on her fifth birthday, fucking bastard. I make a note to grab more of Susana’s clothes from James’ house before crashing at Vanessa’s this time, and shuffle my papers. 

The plastic and metal chair squeaks when I set the papers on the conference room table and blearily try to remember the trickier details of my witness statement. My eyes burn from exhaustion, so I close them for a second and take a deep breath of recycled air. A warm hand suddenly presses a blessedly cold bottle of water into mine. The touch lingers. I look up and see Hamilton. 

“Ready?” His eyes look gentle. 

“Yeah,” I say and stand up to go to look for Vanessa.

Against the noise of my heels clicking down the hallway, I hear him mutter to another lawyer, “Oh.. just.. prepping the witness” and the butch woman he’s talking to laughs.

 

He wins the case, of course.

I sit as perfectly still as I can and fidget with the sleeves of too-long blazer, also Vanessa’s. Loose fabric slides against my shoulder blades. At least the shoes are mine. My fingers twitch and I lace them together, resisting the urge to get my phone out of my bag now that my statement is over with and I don’t even have papers to stare at. Legal talk tips into one ear and out the other. Hamilton is apparently good at more than unexpected niceness and packing heat in those giant eyes of his. 

My thoughts? Friday: Bff Lily’s 6th birthday, make sure there’s no clowns. Pediatrician appointment on Sunday. Laundry at some point?? Ask Mr. Carlston for more shifts. Keep ignoring James. 

Hamilton passionately churns out another perfectly formed paragraph of legal nonsense and faces his audience, tossing a quick look over his shoulder at me before resuming his oral essay. 

The other side attempts a rebuttal, “The plaintiff’s claim clearly adheres to Section 2525.5 of the New York State Rent Stabilization Code-”

Hamilton’s response: immediate and overwhelming. He’s half the other guy’s age and height but even I can tell that his argument isn’t just good, it’s incendiary.

He glances at me again. I recognize that look. From a pre-James era: from the other side of bars and beds and date night appetizers. Showing off. For me. I half-smile at him, trying to remember the last time I paid for Susana’s daycare lunches. Hamilton upps his rapid-fire accusations double time.

 

**  
Alexander looks up and there was a familiar figure leaning in the doorway.

“Hey. Good job on the case…?” Maria Reynolds wrings her hands. “Congrats. Really. Anyway I’m really so sorry but I don’t have any cash on me and I really need to get a cab to Vanessa’s place, she’s at some club and…” She takes a deep breath, eyes looking panicked. “My daughter is probably wondering where I am already and I would walk but it’s late and” She trails off again, looking helpless. Her full mouth curves apologetically, her brow furrows. Strands of bleached blonde hair escape her once-neat bun and frame her face distractingly. 

He blinks.

“I’ll drive you, I’m just heading out anyway.” 

She smiles.

**  
Hamilton listens, which is the best thing. He’s usually talking non-stop but during and after the car ride - I’m an idiot and forgot James killed my card again - he’s quiet except for sympathetic noises as I detail my trainwreck of a life: knocked up at 17, married by 18 and now 23 and financially dependent on an abusive asshole for life probably. Hamilton offers me some money, maybe a loan on top - no interest. He says he would represent me no charge and without the pro bono bureaucracy involved with Vanessa’s case, even though he usually doesn’t do divorce cases. His hands are warm.

It’s nice.

 

**  
She’s gorgeous even with her wavy hair slightly limp from hours in a courtroom and bags under her eyes and the slightly too big borrowed outfit hanging off her frame. They end up sitting on her bed with about a foot of space between them as she finishes her story with a ragged intake of breath. 

She breathes a sigh and just looks at him with her eyes half closed and her hands folded in her lap. “I’m just so tired. You know?” And Alexander really doesn’t know how to say yes without tongue.

 

**  
I had forgotten the feeling of kissing someone that’s nice to me. And Vanessa’s out until tomorrow afternoon at least, and my daughter’s already asleep and. Well. We had sex.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enter James. Trigger warning for domestic abuse, slurs, very stressful verbal fighting, dubious consent, anxiety and a mental breakdown sorta. Mention of sorta child abuse? Also timeline wise, Philip is 9.

It becomes a pastime. 

We have a bit of a schedule, Hamilton and I. He’s passingly concerned about privacy but not really so he picks me up from work a couple times a week and straight to his house. The few days I’m back at James’, we do it there because honestly who the fuck cares about James; but most of the time it’s Hamilton’s place.

His wife and kid are uptown or something, the Hamilton household is always empty except for us. But clearly this isn’t usually the case. Every time Hamilton quickly leads me through his spacious, well-lit upper class apartment, I notice that under his sole use the place is pretty much in a state of decay. Every visit there’s more papers piled up on the table, more gross take-out boxes in the sink, more coffee stains. It’s a shame; under the filth I can feel a lot of love emanating from the place. The trinkets on the dressers, remnants of holiday decorations still not put away. A family lives here. Lived. It’s been a couple months, at least.

I remember my mom’s old place in back California, when I was in elementary and junior high. Low income housing in a rich area, the summer heat was never quite so humid. She kept all my school projects, put my report cards on the fridge. I think I had friends back then.

Hamilton’s house has a lot of smiling pictures of a bunch of people on the walls and the fridge along with the 4th grade report card of someone named Philip. I’ve seen some of the people before like the butch maybe-Asian lady, but the most common frequenter of the pictures is a cute guy with freckles and curly hair I’ve never seen before. Besides Hamilton’s wife of course, she has more friends and family than I do people I see regularly and don’t hate. She looks happy, and doesn’t seem the type to just leave her loved ones for months. I never ask, though. Everyone’s got shit going on.

I wonder what it’s like being married to Hamilton. I’ve googled his wife and she’s gorgeous, philanthropic, saintly even. Elizabeth Schuyler Hamilton. Those cheekbones, that jawline, her figure. The easily Google-able list of accomplishments. I try to pretend to be her sometimes, it doesn’t work. I couldn’t wear those cardigans, I can’t teach children. One is difficult enough, and I refuse to feel too bad about leaving Susana at daycare and play dates so much. I will never be Eliza Hamilton.

But the brief moments when Hamilton buys me takeout after work, or we talk for half a minute about music in the car, I feel. Almost normal. Like I’m dating a nice guy and I live a normal life and I can delude myself into thinking everything will be okay. 

People say that if you lose a limb, you can still feel it. And it aches. That slightly out of body wanting, that right there is why I don’t leave Hamilton. Even when he’s a hot mess, and kind of unimpressive in general.

 

One time he randomly starts asking me more about my life.  
“You’re Latino, right?”  
“Yeah. Mexico.”  
“¿Hablas español?”  
“Not really.”  
His disappointed pout is kinda cute. I roll onto my back and try to go to sleep. I fail.

 

He usually leaves me in his gigantic bed as soon as he finishes and gets back to work in his office, sometimes not even bothering to cover his skinny ass first. 

These are my favorite moments. I stretch and enjoy the expensive sheets. Luxurious, but actually lived in. I pretend this is how I spend my days, not oscillating between James’ and Vanessa’s and working for nearly nothing but tips until everything from my feet to my face ache. Not having to bargain with Susana’s vice principal to let her off for not following the dress code because I can’t afford any new navy blue or burgundy shirts for a fast-growing five-year-old. Hamilton doesn’t care what I do in his house as long as I don’t bother him or touch his wife’s stuff. Sometimes I run a long bath or poke around, but usually I have to get home to Susana as soon as possible.

 

Susana, the adorable bane of my life. She’s very into this new show lately with the little bears, and keeps asking me to buy some game app for her because all her friends have it. I mentally tally the meals I have to try and steal from work as I click download. 

“Thank you, Mommy!” my five-year-old says and smiles, one front tooth missing. I smile back and hug her before getting spaghetti started for dinner. James hates it when I spend his money but can’t say shit when I’m buying good food for his kid, so everything is organic and GMO-free. The fucking tomatoes are free range. I half considered putting in lobster but Susana hasn’t been tested for seafood allergies and I really don’t have the time.

Every time we have to stay with Vanessa, Susana laughs and says she likes this house better because there’s no yelling. Because I smile more. I swear to god, that is the only thing that really makes me smile at asshole customers or only halfway fake-cry for more overtime each month. I can’t wait to see James’ face when I divorce his ass, maybe take all his money too. Can I even do that? I make a note on my phone to research that later.

 

One day Susana is getting piragua all over her picture book about a really shitty cat, and me and Vanessa are just chilling. I try not to spill the mugs of cinnamon hot chocolate I’m holding as I carefully step over Susana, sit down on the couch, and hand the panda mug to Vanessa. She loves the stuff even when it’s hotter than Satan’ ass crack in her cheap apartment. She has since freshman year of high school, when she first tutored me in Spanish and Pre-Algebra twice a week at her parents’ place or the library. I blow lightly into my green polka dot mug to cool.

I take a sip. “Is it bad that I can’t bring myself to really care about either of them?”

She hmms and swallows a big mouthful, licks her lips distractingly. Honestly the only people I really care about in the world are in this room. I don’t even have the time or brainspace to pretend otherwise. 

“I guess it’s understandable,” she says. 

Her hair is pulled back in a ponytail and she’s wearing a Stanford sweatshirt I think is ironic every time, though at least Vanessa graduated high school. 

“Have you done any divorce research?” but she knows the answer is no. I shake my head and put my mug on the coffee table. She raises her eyebrows and nudges my shoulder, admonishingly. 

“You better win our old bet though,” she says, “I’d much rather splurge on champagne than have you still be with James when I get out of here.”

I ignore the twinge in my chest I always get when she talks about moving downtown.

“How do you do it?” I ask.

“Do what?”

“Care. So many people. You have like a million friends and boyfriends and girlfriends. Don’t you get tired?”

She doesn’t reply at first and all I can hear is Susana nearly ripping a page with her excitement to finish the story, and the fucking annoying rattling screams of the elevated train next to the apartment. 

“I do.” 

She changes the subject. 

**

The salon is hotter than ever, but there isn’t anyone complaining about it.

“Vanessa, why hasn’t Maria been in here lately? The girl whose tits saved the salon!” Daniela says, half adamant but mostly teasing.

Vanessa shrugs and grits her teeth when all the gossip turns over into today’s edition of “Oooh, Maria and her married lawyer boytoy!” 

One lady that works at the gas station coos, “Lucky girl! Rich, and so handsome!” 

Daniela tuts, “A bit on the short side, though. Scrawny, too. Much better than that no-good husband of hers though, even if he’s even richer.”

Someone getting bright green extensions exclaims, “I think I saw them on a date last week! Uptown, real fancy place-”

“They don’t go on dates,” Vanessa snaps. She can’t help herself. She looks fixedly down at the back of the head she’s half done buzzing and squeezes the razor a little too hard.

Everyone is quiet for a beat, save some snickering. Vanessa feels heat flare up in her face and puts the razor down, turns around sharply.

“What! She’s my friend! I’m allowed to not approve!”

Daniela laughs. “Ay, por favor, Vanessa. Don’t pretend Maria’s your friend, we all know that you looooove her.”

Everyone oooooohs and Vanessa’s face burns.

Carla’s eyes widen, her springy curls bounce up and down. “Wow! Now that you mention that sexual tension, it’s obvious!” Everyone laughs. Except for Vanessa.

“Yo this is bogus,” Vanessa throws her hands up and makes a beeline for the back door, grabbing a bag of hair clippings on the way to pretend she’s throwing it out.

“Haven’t you noticed Maria gets all her dye jobs for free?” She hears as she gets to the door.

“Ten years!”

She slams the door shut.

 

***  
James’ house is too quiet. I can’t fucking stand living here, everything is slick leather and chrome and plastic and designed to look unlived in. It annoys me so fucking much. In 5 years, I have never once felt at home in that cold, dark place. I still don’t know how to use the fancy TV, I can barely use the microwave. James’ bed is only sometimes a welcome place for me and it’s too big and too James for me to actually get any sleep.

Susana has her own room done up professionally in pink with flowers and well stocked with toys and shit but she gets scared of the dolls and my arm goes numb from being her pillow most nights. 

My record so far is 6 months here with only 4 or 5 breaks to crash on various couches. Starting year 2, Vanessa’s couch is the only one I go to anymore. I keep thinking she doesn’t want me around all the time anymore and it shorts out my brain a bit but I’d rather be with her than all my other friends who I’ve been drifting away from since I dropped out of school. I consider paying Vanessa some rent, but that requires being nice to James.

Fucking James. The penthouse our “family” lives in is his, through and through. He spends less time in it than even I do, but everything is exactly how he wants it. Lifeless and decorative, especially me. Meant to impress any coworkers or guests that come over. The leather couch is so unused my ass slides off the seat.

This time I’m back after only a few days because I couldn’t stand borrowing any more of Vanessa’s money and James always reactivates my card if I go home and play house for a while.

I pick Susana up from daycare and the heat is brutal. I tie my hair up and Susana says it looks like a unicorn tail. I smile, ask her “How was daycare today?”

“It’s a summer ac-tiv-i-ties program, not a daycare! Daycare is for BABIES! I’m a big girl!” I nod and ruffle her little afro. 

I wave hi to Charlie in the lobby and take the elevator up, suddenly shivering in my tank top and shorts. The apartment is even colder, I’m pretty sure James has it on some automated system. I pull Vanessa’s Stanford sweater over my head and start chopping onions and bell peppers for fajitas. Susana volunteers to get the tortillas from the freezer and drags a chair over to reach it. After her contribution is complete, she settles at the big glass and metal coffee table in front of the television with a stack of copy paper and a pack of crayons to draw while I cook.

When James walks in after work, the first words out of his mouth are “Fucking finally.”

The “Don’t cuss in front of the kid” is automatic, and I set down the frying pan and brace myself for a kiss. It comes wet and sloppy with a vice on my wrist and a swipe at my ass. 

“I’ve missed my favorite girls! The house is always so lonely without you!” He’s all smiles, hugging me tight. I keep an eye on the pan to make sure nothing burns. 

We eat dinner and small talk.

“You can quit, you know, honey. I have more than enough money, and think of Susana.”

I swallow hard. “No thanks, sweetheart. I like my job, I would be bored without it.”

He rolls his eyes, “Get a fucking hobby like a normal person.” I breathe in sharply, glance at Susana, who is studiously making her fajita as symmetrical as possible.

James continues, “Next thing, you’ll be getting weird ideas again. Like that time you wanted to start going to college when you just gave birth, what was that even?” I laugh shakily. 

It’s mostly okay though, until James sees what Susana drew before. It’s sitting on the coffee table, bright oranges and reds for me and green and brown for Vanessa and blue and black for herself. It’s adorable, not gonna lie.

“That’s nice, sweetie. Where’s daddy in that picture?” 

Susana looks wary and shrugs, “At work?”

James starts at me, “See Maria? Even the kid likes that dyke bitch Vanessa more than me.” Susana, smart girl, scurries to her room.

“Fuck you, James, you don’t get to talk about her like that. She’s my best friend!”

“Only friend! Why the fuck can’t you just live in my house? My own fucking wife, getting up and leaving all the time!”

My voice gets higher, “You made Susana cry last time! On her birthday!”

“She’s a kid! Kids cry all the fucking time for no reason! Stop being so fucking overdramatic, Jesus Christ. I’m just saying, as the man of the house I deserve to come home to my wife and my daughter, even if my wife is a fucking idiot that doesn’t know she lives here even after 6 fucking years.”

I give up. We fuck. I take a shower in Susana’s bathroom and try my best not to wake her up when I collapse next to her in exhaustion.

The downstairs neighbors can hear us through 6 feet of state of the art security measures and sound proofing and have called the police on us maybe 3 times. They stopped two years ago, probably because James sued them.

The fighting is almost better than when he’s not here, though. It’s always too damn quiet. Susana gets scared. I get restless. I grab my stuff and leave.

James is frustrated and changes the locks every other time I leave. Sometimes he gets sudden amnesia and texts me. He has another company phone for every blocked number, of course. He demands “Where’s my beautiful wife and child? Where’s my dinner?” with fucking. crying emojis. I went back with high hopes the first couple times but it gets tiring, honestly. This whole pattern. It’s been half a decade already, the years are so long and wasted.

I ignore James and piss him off which I probably should not have done because I’d forgotten Susana’s favorite light up sneakers along with like half of her white polo shirts that her school requires.

I’m shit at guessing games and go from frustrated strategizing to Russian Roulette and decide to just deal with it and go back to that house. The doorman says James specifically told him not to let “that crazy bitch” in since my name isn’t even on the lease but Charlie is a nice guy and I promise it’ll only be a second. I really hope James isn’t in. Charlie getting fired via James throwing money at his boss would suck, and I am seriously not up for another round with James so soon.

I take a deep breath and powerwalk to Susana’s room, stuff her clothes into my bag, and start running out when I see James walking in. I’m not even surprised. My luck is utter shit. I mentally square up, try to just stare forward and walk straight past him. 

He grabs my arm, yanks me around. “The fuck are you doing back here? Aren’t you with that bitch Vanessa again?” 

“You daughter needs clothes, you piece of shit. Let go of my fucking arm.” He digs his nails into my wrist a bit before tossing it to the side, backing me up a couple steps towards the open doorway.

“Who the fuck do you think you are, coming in here whenever the fuck you want? You’re the one that fucking left!” I inch backwards a bit.

“I’m your wife! I fucking live here, and have to see your sorry ass all the time!” I glance back, trying to get into the hallway.

James goes in for the kill.

“You, are a high school dropout fuck-up that got knocked up as a teenager, I’m the best thing that ever happened to you.”

“No, you are fucking no-”

“You’re worthless, a pitiful piece of shit. I tried so fucking hard to love you-”

“Love me?!-”

“No one fucking else ever will!” And I still. Mind blanks.

“You lost your tits giving birth, no one even wants to fuck you anymore, I’m doing you a fucking favor. Anyone that stoops down enough to not be fucking disgusted by you is a broke ghetto crackhead that can never buy you all the shit you charge on my card.”

It stings. I grit my teeth.

And I fire back, the only way I can think of, because I’m an idiot. 

“Oh really! Then guess who I’ve been fucking in your bed! A lawyer! A young, hot lawyer that says he fucking loves me!” 

The last part is a lie. But the look on James’ face is priceless just for a split second. Disarmed and grotesque, stretched out and curling around the words “You fucking whore” and the rest.

I continue. “Al-ex-an-der Hamilton! You can look him up!” and James steps towards me and I’m scared for my life for a second but he just sneers “Oh, I DEFINITELY will!” 

He slams the door. There’s a white handprint on my wrist turning red. For the fiftieth time glad my skin is so dark because Susana might see this shit.

And I’m dazed, lean back against the smooth wall next to James’ door. I slide down until I’m sitting on the floor, curled up with my elbows on my knees and my head hanging between. I breathe deep, calm down calm down calm down.

Oh shit. Ohhhh shit. 

I fucked up. I fucked up monumentally. I went too far, I told him Hamilton’s name I fucked up I fucked up I fucked up. 

I feel fucking 17 again, scraps of memories flash of back then when I was young and desperate and had an excuse for dumb shit. Oh god, I’m 23. I’m still young still desperate still that teenager talking big and acting 21 to work in bars. Still can’t think of consequences still can’t tell the difference between a nice guy and a creep a decade older than me. Back then, James was nice. Kissed my hand, said my eyes were pretty. Next thing, my knees are imprinted with cracks on linoleum and there’s a dick in my mouth. Half an hour later I’m in that cold, dark apartment. Three months, pregnant at a shotgun wedding where the barrel is pointed at me. God, I’m such a fucking idiot oh my god I can’t believe-

The one time in ten years I let myself do something for me. I just. Wanted one relationship. Just one, where it could be normal and fine and I could be-

I guess that was my mistake.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enter Jaime Thomson Callender, the intrepid reporter/scandalmonger. Also spoilers but not really, Maria is super gay.

Washington Adams is busy today. Paralegals and clerks are swamped with paperwork, lawyers bouncing from conference room to courtroom and back - elastic. Clients mill around and printers whirr; computers buzz and the heat goes on and on. 

In the midst of the chaos, a simple white envelope is dropped onto the desk of one associate attorney Alexander Hamilton, looking innocuous as any. 

 

**  
“Dear Mr. Hamilton,  
I hope this letter finds you in good health and with the ability to help those disenfranchised by your actions, namely yours truly. My happiness has been irrevocably taken away from me, along with the love of my wife, whom you decided to-”

“Fuck”

A Mr. James Reynolds demands $10,000 for his troubles, a small reparation for the deep pain inflicted on him with his wife stolen away, though of course no monetary sum could ever undo the injury. He claims he loves his wife so much, he will not even demand for the affair to be immediately terminated.

Alexander leaves work early.

 

**

I see Hamilton pacing and muttering in front of Vanessa’s door while I’m walking Susana home. I think, “Oh shit.” and “Good thing Vanessa is at work.” in that order. Part of me is serene and resigned in the eye of the hurricane but I can feel the dread inflating in my stomach. It pops, drains, and pools in my insides again and again. I approach and he starts to talk but I shush him and gesture sharply to Susana. His eyes are wild. He jerks his head and looks down at my girl, stares blankly at me while gently shoo her inside and close the door with a soft click. 

Immediately. 

“How could you?” I flinch.

His face is red, his long black hair a mess. Oh god, what’s he gonna do?

Stay calm stay calm stay calm stay calm.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Hamilton.”

I default to denial, I’m so confused. What did James do? Hamilton keeps pacing and his unending stream of thought just gets louder and louder. I don’t know what to do. Try to get a word in? Impossible. Snap him out of it? Dangerous. I try to maintain a safe distance and don’t know if it’s for my sake or Hamilton’s.

“So was your whole story a set-up? Were you and James planning this the entire time? Did you even help write the letter? I’m ruined, I’m ruined, my job my career my legacy, my- my family, my-” He finally takes a breath. “Did you mean any of it?” 

And what do I say? That I used his name for a split second of petty satisfaction? That I told James he loves me? That I’m just a fucking idiot? I swallow hard, tears are welling up, I bite my lip.

“I don’t know about any letter! What the fuck are you talking about!” My voice cracks, I press past it.

“You know exactly what I’m talking about! Your fucking husband wants 10k!” 

Oh.

Oh god, that’s a lot of money. That’s at least 2k more than my savings, my 5 year divorce fund. Dread and cold panic slip down my throat like so many dirty coins. Hamilton turns on his heel and starts walking away stiff. My head is screaming no, I yell at him.

“Don’t leave! Don’t you just fucking leave! What am I supposed to do!” 

He turns, stares at me silently, face set. I need him to stay. He can’t leave, everyone always fucking leaves. I can’t fix this alone, not this time. 10,000? This random guy’s life? This is too big, there’s too much at stake, I’m completely helpless.

I babble on, “Okay! Okay! It’s on me, I fucked up I’m sorry I fucked up, oh god I fucked up.” Fear trickles hot down my neck, my vision blurs with tears. I stumble forward and grab at his forearms, try to get him to respond to me. One of my knees give out, I just let go of him and curl up on the floor, one shoulder leaning against the wall.

I can’t stop crying, this is such a mess. “I fucked up, I fucked up, oh my god…” I scrub at my face with the back of my hand, leave a black streak of eyeliner. I am such a fucking mess.

Hamilton looks at me hesitantly, shakes his head. Looks at the ceiling, grits his teeth. Exhales, under his breath, “Stop crying, goddammit, get up.” 

I look up at him, almost laughing now with the effort to stop sobbing, hysteria level rising. This is such a giant mess. And so embarassing, Vanessa’s neighbors can definitely hear.

Hamilton looks down at me, eyes softer. 

His gaze is distant, “Well, I’m fucked.” He sits down on the dirty floor outside the apartment, about a foot away from me. He leans back against the wall, head tilted back. “I am so fucked.”

Me too, I think. We sit there for a while mostly quiet. 

He doesn’t look at me.

After several false-starts rife with inertia and internal conflict, I exhale. Pick myself up slowly and carefully. My hands are shaking, I swipe at my eyes again. My head feels like it was stuffed with cotton then liquified. I open the door a bit - a slow creak, two tries, shaky hands- then just stare at Hamilton. The second time this week, screamed at by a man I slept with out of desperation by the door of a house I can’t really call my own. But now he’s the one curled up on the floor, exhausted out of his mind. And it’s my fault. And I swear to god, I don’t know how to say “I’m sorry” without skin.

I lean over a bit precariously, touch his shoulder a bit. I nudge the door open a little more.

“Stay?”

Nobody needs to know.

***

“Mr. Monroe, so you’re the top legal investigator here at Washington Adams?” The interviewer crosses her legs, holding her recording device closer to Monroe’s face. 

The tall man straightens the jacket of his ‘40s style suit and smiles, “Though I am one of the leading legal investigators, I would definitely not be able to say that I’m the best. I’m simply honored to be working with so many talented attorneys on a daily basis.”

The interviewer nods and adjusts her own staid, business-casual outfit. 

“Mr. Monroe, what is your opinion on the radical reputation of Washington Adams? Forbes, Times, and the Wall Street Journal all have well-established their stance that Washington Adams is unprecedented in legal history for its radical ideals and progressive policies. Do you agree with them?”

“Washington Adams as a firm prides ourselves in our pro bono ideological foundations, and do indeed take many cases for the sake of the public good. Our attorneys have a strong sense of morality and do deserve recognition for the endless efforts they expend to-”

“Yes, yes, of course, but what is your opinion? Do you think the seemingly progressive policies are just a product of the changing era? A gimmick to get clients and publicity?” She’s leaning in, eyes gleaming behind wire frame glasses.

Monroe’s angular cheekbones redden just a fraction, “A gimmick? Is that your opinion, Miss Callender? That Washington Adams’ goal of a more even legal playing field for minorities is a big gimmick?”

The interviewer sighs, blows a strand of hair out of her face. “Of course not, Mr. Monroe. I’m simply bringing up points of speculation to clarify.”

Monroe frowns, then continues, “Yes. Well. George and Abigail are both excellent lawyers and have really turned Washington Adams into a force to be reckoned with. I also work very closely with Thomas Jefferson, who I am currently heading an investigation for-” He stops abruptly. 

The interviewer sees her opportunity, pounces. 

“I know this is probably confidential information, but off the books, what are you currently working on? I’m curious, and this will definitely stay out of American Lawyer Magazine.”

Monroe hesitates, then repeats, “Off the books. Alright.” She smiles, gestures “go on!” 

“Well, my current assignment pertains to a man that was recently brought into custody, named Jacob Clingman. He was caught in a small embezzlement scheme and Jefferson’s current client claims Clingman is affiliated with a gigantic hedge fund that we at Washington Adams have been aiming to bust for years. But their portfolio is flawless, beautifully composed, and there’s reason to believe even the federal government may be implicit in possible illicit dealings of the fund!” Monroe is excited, his wide-set gray eyes wide. 

“So this Clingman guy is a big deal then?” In her experience, it had always served well to act dumb.

“Not necessarily, but his connections could be huge. This hedge fund is heavily invested in privatized prisons, probably millions of dollars in corrupt transactions! With luck, Clingman can lead us right to a much bigger fish.” 

“And who’s that?”

“A total expert of a hedge fund manager, finding regulation gaps and bypassing licensing requirements like it’s nothing! The biggest fish at Reynolds & Co., James Reynolds himself.”

***

“It’ll make you feel better!” she said.

“Just like old times, c’mon! Best cure for a bad week,” she said.

I can feel the bass thumping in the club from half a block away, and every part of me is screaming that I don’t belong here. The music bounces up my soles and sends a shiver through my spine. I feel oddly bare in an old shimmery green mini-dress I fished out of the back of my closet, even when it’s not much showier than my usual attire. Warm wind blows past me and my stilettos click on faded asphalt, telling me to run while I can. I don't. The beat expands like a balloon in my chest as I get closer to the flickering neon sign simply stating “Club!” It’s affixed above a glowing doorway at the end of a street with a scattered line trailing around the corner. I think, “anglerfish.” And then chastise myself for being so paranoid. I rub my arms - goosebumps - and try to catch up with Vanessa, ethereal in red up ahead. I fidget with my tiny sequined purse; it feels foreign in my hands after so many years. 

When me and Vanessa walk in, it’s deafening. Some Cumbia punk remix, familiar yet not.  
The place is packed, full of people moving-drinking-shouting-dancing. It’s too much, too much, I don’t know where to look or what to focus on or what to feelseehear first. I can barely remember when I used to like this, but I can still see why Vanessa does. She’s a social creature, that girl. Always popular, likes a little chaos. Everyone knows her here, someone waving or shouting hi every other minute. I thought this was a good idea at first, but it’s getting more and more apparent that Vanessa is the last scrap I have of a social life. 

“This is nice!” I say, “The lights are really cool!” I am SO anxious.

Vanessa grabs my hand, says “Maria, relax! We’re here to get your mind off stressful stuff, terrible men. Have fun!” Her voice is soothing. I clench my thoughts, try hard not to think about Hamilton or James.

I take a deep breath and smile. “Relax? I’m relaxed!” 

She smiles back, radiant. She tugs at me, leading me to the bar. 

“Let’s go get a drink.”

“Something sweet?”

“You know how much I love cinnamon.”

It’s calmer at the bar and my head clears, I actually kinda like it here. The lights swirl and vector out in cool bluegreenpurple patterns; and me and Vanessa are in our own bubble, neon drinks in hand. Salsa dubstep thumping in the background. We reminisce about our high school days, how excited we were when my older friends sneaked us into clubs like this. How we met and got to be friends; interminable afternoons of low light, homework, and second rate television shows. Nostalgia.

“You would always write my essays for me,” she says. Her eyes are bright.

“In exchange for your pre-Algebra homework,” I remember. I was so sure I was going to be something back then. Something good: a doctor or a lawyer or a famous writer. Make my mom proud. 

I talk about sleepovers and gossiping about cute boys, Vanessa gets a strange look in her eye. Wistful, maybe? I can usually tell what she’s thinking, but she always has her moments of uncharacteristic opacity.

Vanessa hums bits of the song playing overhead, my chest tightens. Pride? She is going to be so famous one day. I tell her so, slurring a bit, I lost my alcohol tolerance years ago. She starts to reply when-

“Vanessa!” 

She turns around, jolting, then relaxing. “Oh hey, Jose!”

“You wanna dance?”

“Nah, man.” She glances back at me.

It hits me that Vanessa always dances, she loves dancing. She’s probably bored just talking to me this whole time when there’s so many people to dance with and stuff. I half-shove Vanessa off her bar stool, say “It’s cool it’s cool! Go dance! Have fun!” 

She looks confused or something, “You sure you don’t mind?”

“I’m fine I’m fine!” I don’t wanna be a drag. I wave her off and turn back to my drink, but only for little bit.

Because oh man, can Vanessa dance. 

I can’t stop staring at her. Her long black hair swishing, hips moving under thin red fabric. She’s certainly gotten better at this than the last time I was here, or maybe I just never really looked at her before. I used to be busy dancing. Just like Vanessa, pressed close to random boys, girls. Eyes half closed, skin to skin, sinuous and easy and continuous. A weird feeling builds in my stomach, I drain the rest of my drink. Something aches. I bite my lip. I squirm for a bit, then think “You know what, I’ll just dance too!” 

So I do. 

It’s hotter than I remember, and much more uncomfortable. I press it down, keep moving, even though I pretty much forgot how.

 

This is my third month in a row at James’ place. I only see Vanessa once a week, occasionally text. A new record. He’s smug now, satisfied with himself for finally getting me to stay. By… Manipulating the way I cheat with him. I guess. I don’t even know what goes on in his brain, but it’s fucked up. He keeps alternating between trying to be cutesy with me and treating me like I’m dirty for something he’s making me do. On bad days he leaves bruises purplebluegreen, complains about my cooking. Derisive snark about how he’s finally tamed the shrew; and fuck him, I’ve read Shakespeare. On “good” days, he buys me expensive clothes and purses and makeup, like I give a shit. I start an eBay account.

 

I text Hamilton sometimes, alone in that cold dark house. When Susana's at school, Vanessa's at the salon. Both out having actual lives. Because I feel bad, the letters come regularly and it is a lot of money, even for a lawyer. Because I’m lonely. The whole texting endeavor ends up being a study in romantic abstraction.

One hand usually, no spell check, trying to approximate current day slang:

“I miss u”

“My bed feels so codl without u, I wish I was in urs”

“Wen can I see u agin? It’s been 2 long”

How do people even text these days? It feels like rusted out muscle memory, flirting and sexting and shit. I used to be good at this. I used to be good in a lot of ways. At least Hamilton doesn't complain. 

The texts do ring true, though, in a gut-wrenching misdirected sort of way. It’s definitely not his face I’m picturing. Vanessa’s face flashes in my head, but that’s just normal, right? That my friend for years and years is who I think of before my… Lover. 

God, I need more friends.


	4. Chapter 4

Summer has been officially over for a while now, but it takes a while to hit me. One morning, waking from agitated dreams, I found myself in bed; and the world’s jolted ahead without me. A stutter step - of brighter trees and dead things on the ground, the early-morning chatter of kids in the subway car that aren’t Susana.

I’m utterly disoriented.

James is a big part of that, his very presence gives me whiplash. He oscillates between extremes, one second he’s saccharine sweet and asking what we should do for our upcoming anniversary, then:

“I just want to ask you a question, how can you be so fucking stupid? I thought Hispanic women were good at housework, not completely useless. You’re the exception! What’s the point of having a maid for a mother if you don’t learn shit? Did a single thought go through your empty fucking head?”

I sit, dazed.

He slams the front door, out to drink with his associates.

I spend 15 minutes trying to figure out what exactly I did wrong but my brain has been sort of foggy lately, to be honest. It’s a draw between using the wrong sponge for the coating on the pans or forgetting to fold his socks into thirds instead of halves.  

I can’t deny that my mom was a maid, in California at least. But that’s not fair. Heat flares from the base of my throat, “In Mexico,” I think, “In Mexico, my mom was a chemistry professor”. Toddler me really loved my mom’s old classroom in Zacatecas, the neatly organized and badly air conditioned little room with the gray walls and speckled navy-brown carpet. Rows and rows of desks, empty in the evening light while my mom graded papers. Stacks of old fashioned scales and graduated cylinders and titration kits. The striped mug full of multicolored pens at the corner of her desk, ink stains on my tiny brown hands from doodling little houses and flowers on big yellow notepads. I would read my picture books and kick my feet in my fancy spinny chair that it took three giant science books stacked on top of each other to reach. It was a musty old building, that my mom assured me was full of history. History is all it is, now.

In Los Angeles and Santa Ana and Torrance, I trailed behind my parents and helped them pick toys off the floor and forgot all my Spanish and saw half the stars I used to in the sky each night. In Nueva York, we can’t see beyond our streetlights. Most of my clothes back then were from big white trash bags of charity, amassed from customers and kindly neighbors. Looking at myself now - Stanford sweater, Central Park Zoo field trip volunteer t-shirt, monogrammed cursive R pajama pants matching the ones in the back of James’ closet. A biography on Sotomayor transferred from Hamilton’s bedside to mine. I change into yoga pants.

The next day, James jostles me from Susana’s bed, waking us both. He hugs me tight and says, dripping with alkaline sincerity: “I forgive you. I love you, honey, I always forgive you.” I say nothing. He goes to work.

**

It’s not hard for Monroe to find out about Reynolds' wife. His second contact at Reynolds & Co. stated that Reynolds always brags about his hot young exotic wife but the last time they went to his place for drinks, the couple got into a bit of an argument. From Monroe’s expansive experience, the perfect set-up for some easy information.

Monroe stakes out the apartment from the nearest Starbucks starting 6am exactly, and enters the premises approximately an hour after Reynolds is supposed to have arrived at work. He strolls past the doorman casually to the elevator, not arousing the tiniest scintilla of suspicion. He’s quite proud of himself until he realizes the penthouse floor elevator button is locked. All 26 stories back down in the shiny chrome elevator, silent save the infuriatingly cheery elevator music.

He combs his fingers through his hair and walks up to the doorman he had just avoided, slaps a sheepish grin on his face, admittedly not that far from the truth.

“Oh hey….” He spies the name tag on his lapel, “Charles! I left my wallet at my buddy Reynolds’s place the other day, is he in?”

The doorman replies, “I’m sorry, sir. Mr. Reynolds left for work some time ago. His wife may be in, though-”

“Oh, perfect! Mary or something, right? She knows me, I can just get her to give me my wallet back! Be a buddy, will you Charles, and let me wait up on their floor?”

“If you insist, sir.”

So Monroe is in. The door is locked and no one answers his 3 rings and 67 knocks. But a few patient minutes later, he hears heels clicking on the tile from the other end of the hallway.

Mrs. Reynolds is an attractive black woman; early 20s: as to be expected with men like Reynolds. Monroe catalogues the weather-inappropriate miniskirt and tank top, not sufficiently supplemented by a red button-up shirt completely unbuttoned. Shorter than he expected, about 5’3, with straight black hair that turns blonde about halfway through. She looks at him quizzically, “Are you looking for James?”

Monroe thinks, “But I’m James” and then “Wait.”

Mrs. Reynolds continues, “He’s at work right now. Come back at like 7 or something.” She keeps glancing at the door, inching towards it instinctively.

Monroe smiles at her, trying to put her at ease. “Mary, right? Can I come in for a second? I just have a few questions.”

The woman frowns, says “That’s not my name. And you can ask them right here.”

Monroe drops the smile and gets straight to the point, “Mar- Mariah, I have reasons to believe that your husband is deeply involved in criminal activity. I know he’s not good to you, help me help you. Just give me a statement.”

“No.”

The door clicks shut before Monroe can say anything else.

***

I forget about that weird suit guy pretty fast, but what he said makes me curious. If James is doing some shady shit, I wanna know. And I have nothing better to do, so I surreptitiously spend a couple days trying to see James’ laptop password whenever he logs on.

Next time he’s out drinking again, I drag a chair over to the closet where he hides his computer when he leaves and precariously balance on elevated tip toes and get his laptop down. It’s the most excitement I’ve had in days, weeks; and with the safety net of knowing he’s not going to be home for another 5 hours. Financial records get boring really fast, though, so I just copy a ton of random pertinent looking financial files onto a USB drive shaped like an overstuffed sheep and stick it in my purse for later.

 

There was a study somewhere that some probably-evil scientists kept a bunch of orphan kids in separate rooms; one group getting regular physical contact, the other starved. The latter all died. Honestly and a bit embarrassingly, the realization slowly creeps on me that I’m touch starved. I didn’t realize how much casual touching I had with Vanessa and Carla and the ladies until I’m stuck at James’ for months. With James, there’s no touch that isn’t premeditated. He touches me in abrupt, controlling movements. Grabs my elbow and pulls me to other rooms, grabs my ass in a proprietary fashion. Open palms on skin. I miss high fives and shoulder taps and mostly hugs. I hug Susana all the time, but she always squirms away because it’s uncomfortable and she has better things to do anyway.

 

For once in my life, working is more of a reprieve than something to endure through. I take mostly lunch shifts now, have to be home in time to make dinner. I walk Susana to school, go straight to the little heavily Americanized Italian restaurant I’ve been waiting tables at for the last two years.

I don’t know why, but my eyes water a bit whenever the other waitresses look so relieved to see me. Insist, “Oh, Maria, I’m so glad you’re here, we’ve all been in a rush since 7am!” It’s comforting there, the familiar rhythms of the restaurant. A jazz cover of some mid-2000s alternative rock song, clinking plates and glasses, the sinks and fryers.

 

Hamilton’s wife is back from uptown. That means I only meet with Hamilton when she’s at work or something, at odd hours of the day and for much shorter times than before. I should be glad, but it chafes at me excruciatingly in odd ways. Guilty, I miss his hot fingertips on my skin and hearing his short breaths on my neck, heartbeat on my chest. My skin has molded into his negative space without me noticing. I’m not sure if I even like him, but I’m in love with the closeness.

The house is cleaner, more lived in, I get a nervous edge when I see signs of life. A cardigan draped over the back of a chair, new children’s drawings stuck to the fridge. But thankfully these things are just flashes and glimpses, Hamilton doesn’t let me poke around the house anymore. Or spend nights.

I can always read Hamilton, and I’ve known from the start that he sees me primarily through a thick lens of pity. I’ve always been vulnerable to him, the knowledge sifts uneasily in my chest. But when I’m with Hamilton, I can just be. I don’t have to stop the embarrassing whimpers with the slightest skin-on-skin, I can just melt into him for a little while. Of course it’s not an ideal situation, but it’s all I got for now.

Sometimes he naps fitfully for half an hour or so and I’m pretty sure that’s the only sleep he’s gotten in days. It’s rude to leave, and a bit of pressure is off when his eyes aren’t tracing me at all times anymore. My outline mapped out in laser precision. I check the clock, pick a book off the floor or a chair or occasionally even the shelf. I try to remember the old relief I felt when I laid in this bed without a price on my head; try to find the place where I left on in The Wealth of Nations by some white guy named Adam Smith. I perch delicately on the side of the bed, pose a bit. Try to enjoy the rhythm of the words, how soft the sheets are. Because there’s not a lot to enjoy, lately.

I occasionally trace the dark smudges under Hamilton’s eyes. Rare soft spots on a face made of sharp angles and prickly stubble. They’re even more noticeable once his eyes are closed and not big and intense, distractingly in constant flickery motion. A light turned off. I run my thumb lightly over the scarred ridges of Hamilton’s knuckles, a thought occurs to me.

“Run away with me.”

I look at his sleeping face, long dark hair. It rings true as much as anything, but it feels wrong somewhere. A series of prickles at my diaphragm, saying _no no no. Not here not now not this not you._

Hamilton seems so desperate all the time, short on time, hurtling towards something. I’m desperate too, but I’m not going anywhere.

Kafka made me claustrophobic when I was younger, but now I feel for the poor Gregor.

Guilt settles in when I’m doing laundry or taking orders. It’s scratchy and heavy and ever-expanding. I nicely suggest to James to let me stop seeing Hamilton, James nicely suggests cutting off Susana’s funding.

I suddenly have a lot of free time on my hands after Susana goes to bed at 9. It’s kinda depressing. James tries to take me on late night dates sometimes, but it’s the same act as at home but with more of an audience. A lot of the time I leave him petulantly watching TV in the livingroom or he goes out drinking with some office buddies.

I put Susana’s cartoons on the big TV in the living room instead of my old laptop with the scratches and weird marks and six years worth of stickers. There’s colorful aliens or superheroes or something eating breakfast on the screen and I settle with Susana the best I can on the hardly used couch. I shift around uncomfortably and Susana pats my leg impatiently with her eyes still glued to the screen, brow tense with concentration.

I go to Susana’s room and get her blanket and a couple pillows, and three minutes later she’s happily plopped in my lap in a little nest. She squirms when I put my arms around her, set my chin gently on her shoulder since she’s getting too tall to me to put it on her head anymore. Her curly hair tickles the side of my face, but it’s bearable. My legs fall asleep after a couple hours but Susana is so warm and content in my lap, I can’t bring myself to care just yet.

“Mommy, how can that monkey talk? Is his brain really big?”

I reply, “I don’t know, baby. It must be.”

  
“Mommy, how is the Green Ninja also the Golden Ninja? How did they all learn Spinjitzu?”

I reply, “They all went to school every day and listened to their teacher.”

“Mommy, is that lady really made out of candy? Why doesn’t anyone eat her?”

I reply, “Eating people is bad.”

She falls asleep in the same position but slightly leaned over, snoring softly and a long string of drool elongating down towards my arm that’s resting at her side. It takes me a few tries to get out of that position, my legs flare static and I nearly topple over trying to get up without tipping Susana off the couch. I pick her up - she’s getting really heavy - and stumble into her room, lay her down in bed as gently as I can. I go get the pillows and blankets again and consider tucking her in but just sorta toss the blanket over her, she always ends up kicking them away anyway.

It’s only 10:30pm and I should go to sleep but I really don’t feel like it. I lay on my back next to Susana and check on my virtual cats on my phone for half an hour and consider getting back into social media, just for something to do that isn’t cats. I wander back to the living room, there’s a cool documentary about robots. It’s some sort of prototype that moves around by itself and answers questions just like a real person, and it’s such a tiny cool thing I didn’t know before I feel the need for posterity.

I text Vanessa.

_robots are so cool I’m so excited_

She replies immediately:   _maria u complete nerd_

_but nessa it’s so cute_

_pic_

The TV is focusing on the inventor dude’s face instead of the robot so I wait for the perfect moment. It passes three times and my Camera Roll is up from 791 to 807 before I just settle for a video and send it to Vanessa with the shaky edge of the coffee table and the top of my neon green fuzzy socks actually taking up most of the frame. I caption it, “poor sweet baby it can’t even stay upright what if it falls.”

_sigh u r such a nerd_

_i am so emotional nessa i am literally crying it’s so beautiful ur rly missing out on this_

The three little dots saying she’s typing stay there for a while, and then she finally responds.

_yeah i am i rly wish i was there_

I can’t tell if she’s sarcastic or not because I can’t tell anything from just words on a screen and my cyber social literacy is literally zero. I try to change the subject but before I can think of anything, Vanessa sends me a link to YouTube. _i’m so obsessed with this song lately omg_

I watch it like I always do and comment on the bits I like even though I have no idea about music or videos and Vanessa gushes about chord progression and synths and cinematography. I appreciate that she sends me things for us to talk about, I don’t think there’s much in my life interesting enough to really have a conversation about. Except for robots of course because that was awesome.  

I feel bad that I hadn’t texted her in like three days before this, but the reason was that I felt bad for being clingy and annoying so now it’s like double bad. Vanessa talks about Dani’s spot-on lovestruck Benny impersonation, I rigorously hyperbolize how mad a customer got when I got him Coke Diet instead of Zero. I’ve seen her twice this month, and only once the month before that.

I watch 45 minute videos about far off planets and illegally download psychology textbooks for fun, trying to apply it to getting more tips or making James fuck off. I sent Vanessa a screenshot about Freud - I hate that guy. Susana really likes dinosaurs lately, so I end up elbow-deep in articles about the crucial history of the Brontosaurus or Apatosaurus argument.

I wonder what the rest of the world is doing out there.

I tend to avoid facebook for obvious reasons, but I cave and download the app just once. I haven’t posted anything since 2008. I scroll, and everything is different and the same. Everyone has a job, everyone’s married, everyone has kids. My little cousin back in California that I used to babysit on weekends and walk to the community pool with just graduated college. I click the little thumbs up and can almost smell chlorine. Los Angeles taco stands and my mom’s old perfume, from when every day felt like summer. Palm tree silhouettes on the inside of my eyelids. My dad whistling off-tune and his rough calloused hands drumming on the steering wheel on the way to school.

 

A few posts down, my other cousin I haven’t talked to in 10 years is beaming out of a sunny beach day wedding photo. I’m surprised, the rock on her finger is gigantic and gleaming. Her dress looks like it costs more than Vanessa’s hair salon. Something akin to pride rises up in my chest along with something black and toxic. She looks so happy. I hope she’s happy.

I debate for a while, then open a little Messenger box. I type out, “Congratulations!”

I stare at the blinking cursor. Add some celebratory confetti emojis. I stare some more. Quickly add, “We should catch up!!” and click send before I can chicken out.

 

Work is good, work is fine, some kind soul gives me a $10 tip. I’m always struck by a sense of normalcy when I’m at work, satisfaction from being useful. I burn my arm a little bit when I nearly crash into an elderly lady in a cat cardigan with a bowl of soup balanced on my arm, but I run it under cold water and get through the day.

The air is crisp and feels slightly less polluted than usual, I’m still not used to getting out of the restaurant before dark. The humidity has let up and my hair is finally alright without using a metric ton of glossing serum Vanessa gave me so my hair won’t just bounce back into curls every day. Susana is much more popular than me and is at a play date with her friend that lives in Queens.

The day quickly sours after my shift but I convince James that if I’m really as ugly as he says I am, he should let me go redo my hair so I’m not even more abrasive to the human eye.

Everyone’s in a rush, Vanessa just hands me the lunch she saved for me and goes back to a really astonishingly pretty customer’s twist out. It bothers me for some reason. I sigh loudly at one of the tables at the side, picking at the chipped white paint covering decades old wood. I stare at the mint green paint job and the 80's hairstyle posters through the giant mirrors that line one of the walls, automatically keeping an eye on Vanessa.

It’s a full house today. I wonder if the teenagers are getting back to school haircuts, but with a jolt realize it’s already closer to Spring Break. Winter comes later and later here every year, and this time it seems I just blew past it.

I push the thought aside and sulk dramatically into my Chinatown takeout, disheartedly flipping through outdated style magazines.

Daniela is laughing at me, I can tell.

Carla tries to engage me in conversation whenever she has a spare second but it’s not often and she gazes at me while shaving some guy’s head, bereft. Then she perks up, abandon’s someone else’s highlights.

“I know what’ll make you feel better!” She half skips to the back room.

“WEPA!”  

Trumpets, percussion, and of course. Ricky Martin. It’s always Ricky Martin, when it’s not Santana or a pre-pubescent Michael Jackson.

I groan, but I’m laughing. Mostly at Vanessa, who is already doing some sort of salsa step with much more hip sway than necessary and dramatically counting off her fingers.

“Un, dos, tres, un pasito pa'delante Maria!”

Vanessa’s next door neighbor says, “Oi, Maria, your face is so red!” Like five people are cackling at me, totally unfair.

A retired nurse that used to babysit Susana laughs, “Ay, Maria! Es tu cancion!”

Vanessa hugs me - sweaty -  and I almost cry. I forgot how tall she is, the lower half of my face smushed into her collarbone. Her arms around me, warm and wonderful. I’m telling you. Hugs>Sex.

 

It’s another late night on my own, James is probably out fucking some other girl. I can’t sleep, and I can’t help but gravitate to that little blue and white “f” icon again.

There’s a little red 1 on the corner, I click it.

A reply from Claudia: “Maria!! Thank you, how have you been??” emoji emoji emoji.

 

It’s nearly summer again, so James wanted to commemorate with a barbecue party out on the gigantic patio I’ve stepped foot on twice. After all the rich drunk white men leave, it’s me left to clean everyone’s mess. Savory half-cooked blood and bits of fat are already getting under my nails.

I’m scrubbing at a grease-stained frying pan when James comes up behind me, squeezes my shoulders, leans in close against my back. “Hey honey… I’ve been thinking. Do you really have to keep working at that dumb restaurant?” He doesn’t expect an answer, so I don’t give him one.

“It really takes up too much of your time, and you’re exhausted all the time. You know you don’t need to work.” I am exhausted, but I have to work I have to.

“I like my job! I love the people there, I get free samples, I have regular customers I would miss…”

He’s dismissive, rubs my arms up and down. “Oh baby, you can really make new friends anywhere. You shouldn’t be slaving away all day when you don’t even have to! You know what. If you really want to work and talk to people every day, you can come work with me. As my secretary or something, wouldn’t that be nice?”

Cue internal screaming, a solid block of noise. “Well, James, honey, I’m not sure if I would adjust very well to a new work environment after so long…” I can’t think of any more reasons right now. My fingers start to ache with the death grip I have on the frying pan.

He kisses the top of my head, “Oh darling, that’s why it’s even better you can work for me! We can be together all the time, and if you’re not up for work or tired or anything, you can just go home since I’m your boss!”

I stop trying to do dishes, my hands are shaking. I set down the pan gently and turn around, my hands are cold and wrinkly. I stretch them out, wiggle my fingers. “But I really like the satisfaction of a job well done, I really don’t think it would feel fair to have it easier than everyone else...” But I’m almost considering it at this point, I’m so tired. I am so so tired.

“But isn’t that what you deserve? As my wonderful wife? You’ve been working so hard, Maria, I really admire that. You’ve got a Protestant work ethic, and you’re not even Protestant!”

I want to say “I need that money to divorce your sorry ass.” But I don’t. It’s so much easier to say yes, all the time. Say yes say yes do what James says, it’s so much less trouble. I open my mouth, an acquiesce on my tongue.

“What do you say, honey? We’ll be such a good husband-wife business duo! Maybe Susana can even come in sometimes, see her daddy at work."

Susana.

“No.”

“...What? Maria, sweetheart?” I try not to think.

“I said no, James.”

His fingers lock around my upper arms.

“What do you mean, no?”

The rest of the fight is a blur of shoving and perspiration and jerky gesticulation and an entire dictionary of cuss words. It’s so much like the usual but there’s an air of finality to it, an expanding pocket of air in my head, blood racing with uncertainty. I have no idea what I’m doing or what I’m gonna do next, but something is ending for sure. James doesn’t see the set in my jaw when I grab my purse and stuff a bag with clothes and toys. I feel like I’m dropping out of senior year all over again. I leave. I just leave. For good. Susana is at her friend’s house and I am going to get her tomorrow morning but right now I am leaving for the first time in months I am leaving I am leaving. It's cold out wearing just jeans and a couple sweaters, but I am gone.

Why the fuck does James have to live on the Upper East Side. I’m too tired to get on a subway to Vanessa’s but Hamilton lives a block away. Without thinking, I just go.

I’m breathing heavy and trying to hold back an elated sob when I finally get to the door, a feeling I’ve never associated with this place. I ring the doorbell and knock a couple time for good measure, and Hamilton usually opens up immediately but I’m left on his doorstep for a couple minutes, breathing hard and spinning out malformed fragments of celebratory statements.

“I did it, I left! Now I can-”

“We’re free! You don’t have to pay James anymore, he has no power over me! We can-”

“We can-”

When the door gently opens, it’s not Hamilton.

A beautiful woman with long, silky black hair smiles at me, a concerned furrow in her brow.

Hamilton’s wife.

Elizabeth.

I gape at her for a second, her black eyes peer at me kindly. I stutter out, “Oh, oh my god I thought this was my- my friend’s house! Sorry to bother you!”

She laughs and a little kid toddles up to her leg, raised arms and intelligible pleading noises. Elizabeth smiles with unbearable tenderness and lifts the baby into her arms. “No problem, it happens to everyone.”

She just _keeps smiling_ at me, I can’t bear it. Residual gentleness in her eyes probably transferred from when she was looking at her kid. Or maybe she just secretes the stuff endlessly, I don’t know. The baby’s curly hair is just like my Susana’s. Another curly haired kid, about twice Susana’s age, walks up behind her and looks at me from behind Elizabeth’s blue dress. I take a step backwards, caught between black eyes and freckles and curly hair.

“I’m really so sorry,” I say with all the scattered sincerity I can gather up on short notice, and I’m two steps down before Elizabeth calls out to me, “You look stressed, dear, are you sure you don’t want to come in for tea?” The door is completely open. The house is so different from before. Cleaner, and full of warm effusive light. It almost burns when it touches me, I step down a little more, stumble.

“Ah. I- I. I. Uh.” My breath catches in my throat, my chest aches.

“Who’s at the door, honey?” I hear Hamilton behind her, muffled. Something rots in me.

And I just leave. Turn around and let my legs automatically take me to the nearest subway station with a burst of energy that isn’t mine. I can barely even see my eyes are so blurred.

I was never good at saying sorry.


End file.
